I Obeyed a Stranger While My Boyfriend Slept Beside Me

What I’m about to tell isn’t exactly a confession. It’s more like a love letter, an offering, and an act of worship addressed to a man whose real name I never learned, and who, for one week two summers ago, completely controlled my mind. Never before or since have I felt so clearly how weak I am. Never have I wanted so badly to obey.

I’m convinced of one thing: we’re all two people. One on the outside, the person they see at work and at Sunday dinner. And another inside, the one who only comes out when no one’s looking. Mine has spent years wanting to disappear inside someone else’s will.

Let’s say the island was Menorca, during the summer two years ago. I was on vacation with Adrián, my boyfriend, who only knows me up to a point. He doesn’t know that I need to be dominated and controlled. He doesn’t know that every night I dream of finding a toxic bastard who will erase me, turn me into a rag, and then destroy me a little more, just for the pleasure of it.

My fantasy was always the same: to be a drone, a dog that obeys without asking questions, that begs for the next dose of contempt as though it were oxygen. I used to fall asleep with my cock hard, imagining that one day I’d find a monster capable of making me addicted to his cruelty, capable of frying my brain until he could make me run without touching my dick, just by hearing the sound of his belt opening and the buckle hitting the floor.

But my outward life is something else. I’m the respectable boyfriend, the one who leads an enviable life, the one who smiles in photographs and pays his bills on time.

And no, Adrián can’t be that man. We tried. We played at dominance and submission a few times, more like a theater exercise than anything else, and everything came out false, forced, almost comic. When I asked him to call me a slut while he fucked me, he laughed and lost his erection halfway through the thrust; he pulled his shiny cock out of my ass and hugged me, apologizing. He loves me too well. Tenderness overwhelms him. He doesn’t have the monster inside him that I need, and forcing him to pretend made me infinitely sad.

So, behind his back, I searched. I met men who agreed to control me from a distance, as far as possible, without raising suspicions. In each one I looked for a new cruelty, a different kind of indifference, a more perverse twist. Most of them got tired quickly. They wanted a quick blowjob in a car, to come in my mouth and get lost; I wanted something much worse: I wanted to surrender my will and have it truly taken from me, I wanted some son of a bitch to shove his cock down my throat and tell me that from that day on my cunt belonged to him.

The façade, meanwhile, remained intact. No one ever suspected a thing. I even sat down to Christmas Eve dinner at my parents’ house with a steel plug up my ass because a stranger had ordered me by text that very afternoon. I had pushed it into myself in my parents’ bathroom, with lubricant stolen from my mother’s toiletry bag, breathing deeply as the cold base settled between my buttocks. I made it through the appetizers and the toast with that metal pressing inside me, noticing that every time I shifted in my chair, the tip brushed against something that made me leak clear semen into my underwear, without a muscle in my face moving. Inside, I was trembling with gratitude, my cock dripping beneath the tablecloth.

But that wasn’t him. The story that matters happened in Menorca.

***

By then I’d been talking to that man for a little more than ten days. He knew I was going to travel to the island with my boyfriend, and the idea of getting me into trouble in front of him amused him like a new toy. He told me I was his prey. That he was the mad scientist and I was the body strapped to the operating table, helpless, at his disposal, my legs spread and my ass exposed so he could open me with two fingers and examine me inside. He said he’d gotten inside my head and there was no way to throw him out. Each of his sentences landed like a sharp blow, and I was grateful for every blow.

I spent the days before the trip at the office watching my phone, my cock wet, staining my underwear with pre-cum every time it vibrated. He chose which underwear I wore each morning; I sent him a photo, the bulge outlined and a dark spot at the tip, and waited for his verdict. He made me write that he was my true love, the only one, that my faggot cunt belonged to him. He made me masturbate quietly in the office bathroom, repeating his name, swearing I would give him everything, even my rights, while I pushed three fingers into my ass, braced against the cubicle wall. He forced me to come without touching my dick, only with my fingers inside, and to lick the semen from my hand before returning to my desk. He told me he was going to disable me, that he’d lock me in a basement I’d never leave, tied to a bed with my legs spread so any guy he invited could come and fuck me, and there was nothing else in the world I wanted. His words made my body move by itself, made my asshole contract in waves as if he were already inside me.

One afternoon, in the supermarket parking lot, he ordered me to get into the car, pull down my pants, and fuck myself with the handle of a hairbrush I carried in my bag. I did it. With the seat reclined, my knees against the steering wheel and the women’s panties he’d forced me to buy that morning around my ankles, I drove the handle into myself again and again until I came over the seat lining, biting my fist to keep from screaming. I sent him a photo of the semen running down the leather. He replied with a single word: “Lick it.” And I did. I ran my tongue over the sticky puddle until I left the seat clean, then went home with my come in my stomach and his voice buzzing in my head.

Adrián remembers that vacation as the happiest one we’ve ever had. So do I, though for reasons he’ll never understand. He saw me relaxed, distracted, not mentioning work, smiling for no apparent reason while we ate fish at a small harbor, the boats creaking on the water.

I wasn’t smiling because of dinner. I was smiling because my mind had been hijacked.

Hacked. I was another man’s drone, and my boyfriend toasted with me without knowing it, while beneath my swimsuit I wore the small plug that bastard had ordered me to put in before we left the hotel.

***

What still frightens me most, even today, is how well it worked. There was something hypnotic about what he did with words, and the effects lasted for days. The impact of that week changed me inside in a way I’ve never managed to undo. Sometimes I think I’ll never be that happy again, that I’ll never again know such complete surrender, so romantic, so absolute.

We went far. One night, around ten, while Adrián was showering, he wrote me something very simple. Before that, though, he’d ordered me to lock myself in the bedroom bathroom with him on the other end of the line and fuck my mouth with the handle of the electric toothbrush until I gagged, while I put two fingers in my ass. I had to record myself and send him the video. I swallowed the whole thing, eyes watering and snot hanging from my nose, then pulled out the handle coated in thick saliva and sucked it in front of the camera as though it were a real cock. He told me I was a filthy whore, that no slut sucked with such hunger. A moan escaped me so loudly that I had to turn on the faucet to cover it.

Afterward, still breathing raggedly and with the taste of my own ass in my mouth, he told me I was to send him a message at exactly two-hour intervals during the night: at midnight, two, four, and six. He didn’t present it as an order. There was no threat. He said it as someone announcing something that was going to happen no matter what, like the tide.

I got into bed with my boyfriend and thought, with enormous sadness, that I was going to disappoint him. My master. My bastard. My toxic love. My mad scientist. My sadist. There was no human way to set the alarm every two hours without Adrián, who slept lightly, waking up and asking what was wrong.

We went to bed early. The room smelled of salt and the sunscreen from the day. Adrián reached for me beneath the sheets, caressed my chest, ran his hand over my sleeping cock, and whispered that he could, if I wanted. I said yes and let him fuck me slowly, face down, his heavy body over mine and his cock entering the ass that another man had used remotely that afternoon. Adrián came inside me with a tender moan, kissed the back of my neck, and collapsed beside me. I stayed still, feeling his semen sliding between my buttocks, and thought of the other man, the one who truly possessed me, and my eyes filled with tears. At exactly midnight, with Adrián breathing deeply beside me and my boyfriend’s semen still leaking from my anus, I took my phone beneath the sheets, turned the screen brightness down to its lowest setting, and wrote the first message of the night. I told him I was his, that my ass was full of another man’s come and that I still belonged only to him. I pressed send and stared at the ceiling. I fell asleep sadly, convinced there would be no second message.

At two minutes before two, my brain woke me up.

I’m not exaggerating. Nothing went off. I didn’t move by chance. My eyes flew open, completely lucid, as if someone had flipped a switch inside my skull. And the sensation that ran through my body was the most intense rush of happiness I’ve ever felt in my life. My cock grew hard immediately, so hard it hurt, pressing against the waistband of my underwear, and I felt a jet of hot fluid escape and soak the fabric. My eyes hadn’t opened by themselves: he had opened them, from a distance, from another city, without touching me. His order had reprogrammed me. My body had obeyed a voice that wasn’t even in the room.

I wrote the second message with trembling hands. I told him my cock was dripping, that my ass was still sticky from my boyfriend and that he was inside my head, and that I was his bitch. I got up carefully, barefoot on the cold tiles, and went to the bathroom. I was so wet that for a second I thought I’d pissed myself. That wasn’t it. It was my body responding to something my mind no longer controlled. I pulled down my soaked underwear, sat on the bidet, and felt Adrián’s semen, already cold, mixing with my own fluid and falling into the white porcelain basin. I put two fingers inside myself and pulled out what remained; I brought them to my mouth without thinking, obeying something he had asked me days earlier by text: that every time another man fucked me, I swallow his come afterward as an act of devotion to him. I washed my face, looked at myself in the mirror with my lips shining with semen, and barely recognized myself. I tiptoed back to bed, my cock still hard and bouncing against my belly. Adrián didn’t stir.

At two minutes before four, again. The same clean awakening, the same rush, the same perfect obedience. This time I dared to do more: I slipped my hand beneath the sheets, spat on my fingers, and began masturbating very slowly as I wrote, biting my lip to keep from moaning, with Adrián’s hand resting innocently on my hip. I described in a message how I was touching my cock beside my sleeping boyfriend, how my empty asshole contracted, missing something inside it, how I would shove my fingers into myself if I weren’t afraid of waking Adrián with the movement. He ordered me to stop before I came, and I stopped. My cock kept throbbing, the tip swollen and purple, a thread of fluid running down to my navel. Message sent. At two minutes before six, the same thing. Four precise awakenings, without a single alarm, only his words installed in me like a program.

After that I couldn’t go back to sleep. I lay on my back, my cock still half-hard and stuck to my thigh, the damp stain spreading across my underwear, listening to my boyfriend’s breathing and the birds’ first song, and cried for a long while. Not from sadness. I cried from happiness, gratitude, something resembling faith. I watched the gray light enter through the gap in the blinds and slowly turn golden.

At eight I sent him one last message, a long one, full of love and worship, thanking him for what he had done to me, swearing that my faggot cunt, my mouth, and my come were his forever. And only then, only when he wanted, did he give me permission to go back to sleep and to come as well. I put two fingers in my ass beneath the sheets and slowly jerked off, thinking of his voice, coming over my own belly in four hot spurts that reached my chest. I gathered the semen with my fingers and swallowed it, as he had taught me, before closing my eyes.

I closed my eyes again, still crying, happy, and let myself fall once more into my comfortable, orderly life, full of appearances. Adrián stretched at nine, kissed my shoulder, and asked whether I’d slept well.

“Like a log,” I told him.

And it was almost true. I’d slept like a log that someone moved and returned to its place at will.

***

It wasn’t the only night. There were more, that week and afterward. But none like that one, because none showed me so clearly how far I’m willing to go, how little it takes for me to give up everything when the right voice asks me to.

I lost contact with him a long time ago. He changed his number, disappeared, grew tired of his toy, or found a better one. Sometimes, in the early hours, I wake up at two minutes before two for no reason, my cock hard and pressed against the mattress, my heart racing, and I lie there waiting for an order that will never come.

Adrián sleeps peacefully beside me, unaware of everything. I love him. I really do. But part of me is still waiting in the darkness, my anus contracting on its own, for a stranger to tell me again what I have to do.